Beyond The Dying Light
by Wolf126
Summary: Commander Nolan Shepard did come back to her, in the end. ME3. M!Shepard/Tali. Now, a three-shot. May also be known as 'Happily-Ever-After-Compliant'. AU, unfortunately.
1. Beyond The Dying Light

_Character(s): Commander Nolan Shepard with brief mentions of Tali'Zorah vas Normandy._

_Disclaimer: As always, I own nothing. The _Mass Effect_ trilogy belongs solely to BioWare and EA._

_______**IMPORTANT NOTICE:** This piece takes place in the same universe as my some of my other ME fics, including (1) _**Wishful Thinking**_, (2) **Into The Void**, (3) _**Prometheus**_, (4) _**Elevator Revelations**_, (5) **Heart**, (6) _**No Exit**_, (7) _**To Build A Home**, and (8) **In The Distance, Fading**._  
_

_____Ahem. I guess another explanation is in order for this fic. While I have Happily-Ever-After fics planned upon completion of 'To Build A Home' and her two sequels (which will kinda follow BioWare's canon endings), this fic will function as a bridge between the end of ME3 and those Shepard/Tali Happily-Ever-After fics already mentioned. As a one-shot, this fic is my version of a "fixed" and hopeful ending in which Shepard doesn't necessarily die, where the geth and EDI aren't destroyed, and the Reapers are really gone for good. It may seem like he does die, but he doesn't, trust me. I'm just leaving it open for interpretation at the moment. :-)_

_____All will be revealed once 'Swan Songs' has been rewritten. _

_____So, please, enjoy._

_Constructive criticism is, as always, welcome. Please, no flames._

* * *

**Beyond The Dying Light**

**oOoOo**

Commander Nolan Shepard woke suddenly and inexplicitly.

He gasped for breath as he came to, and allowed some time for his eyes to adjust. In actuality, his shadowy world was comprised of darkness. An inky blackness filled with inhuman shrieks and explosions, ghostly sounds that flitted in and out of existence.

He doesn't know why it's so difficult to think. In the deepest recesses of his mind, he realizes that he can't feel his legs, and he knows that he should panic, but he doesn't. He just . . . _doesn't_. He tries to move, but he's weighed down with something heavy, something _unbelievably_ heavy that's crushing his legs and his lower abdomen, and painfully pinning him to the ground.

As his eyes adjusted, he finally began to detect faint sources of light. From there, his eyesight gradually improved until he discovered that these were not synthetic in nature at all, but a multitude of small fires where debris or some spilled chemicals had caught aflame. Everywhere he looked, rubble littered the ground. Where once the Citadel had been pristine and beautiful, it was now little more than a derelict-looking space-station. He could still see beyond the thick window and into the void of space, where Reapers floated helplessly and lifelessly by. For a moment, he looked upon them with confusion, until comprehension dawned and everything came rushing back.

It had all been a dream. A nightmare, a hallucination, or whatever else you wanted to call it. There had never been a Catalyst morphed into the form of the boy he could not save, never been an ultimatum. And whatever he'd pressed before passing out from sheer blood-loss had certainly done the trick; the Reapers were no more.

His victory was rather short-lived as he finally noticed the window itself. It bore an enormous crack down its center, and he looked at it intently, wondering if this would be the very thing to take his life again. Suffocation. He remembered its sharp burn in his chest quite well.

He allowed his emerald-green eyes to wander aimlessly as his eyesight flitted in and out of focus. Nearby, he could see Anderson's crumpled form, blood pooled around him, and knew that not everything had been a dream. If he looked hard enough, he might just find the Illusive Man's body, too. One man who had been a hero in life, the other a hero in death.

Only then did he look down upon his own body. A heavy piece of debris had fallen onto his lower torso and legs, covering him almost completely. He should feel its crushing weight, feel the searing pain, but strangely enough, he feels nothing. No pain, and no triumph. He was only distantly aware of the danger this situation posed, being that paralysis of the spine might be the most likely culprit for this numbness. Despite his knowing that he should panic and attempt some action to regain some feeling in his legs, he cannot bring himself to do anything. There's no reason to.

Thus rendered unable to lift his upper torso from the ground, he had a limited view of his surroundings. He was completely and utterly alone. In that moment, he thought of Garrus and Tali. They seemed a long way away, on a far-off, distant world, and he vaguely hoped that they and the rest of the Normandy's crew had survived.

No. He could not bring himself to believe that they'd died, and were lying somewhere as lifeless husks. Not when so many others had died beforehand, his team dwindling with every mission to take its toll. Even after Akuze, loss still stung. Especially when he still believed himself responsible for his people's untimely deaths. Always the same unending questions that tormented his subconscious mind: _What if I had done something differently? Why hadn't I tried harder to save them? What did I do wrong?_

He should be accustomed to loss by now, having already lost so many, but he's not. It's his constant companion, undeniably foreign and impossible to understand.

Somehow, there is comfort in the knowledge that he is to die here. Die for his people, for the galaxy and all of its inhabitants. For Tali. There was something poetic in that. Something almost _noble_. In retrospect, it was a good death. The best a soldier could ever hope for. Wasn't it?

In his death, he would not be forgotten. His sacrifice would be remembered, possibly until the end of time, and his story told for centuries.

This said, he suddenly became aware of the fact that there was something very wrong with his ear-piece as the audio kept flitting in and out of existence, leaving him with an uncomfortable silence for one moment and then disturbing static the next. Fortunately, his hands were not buried beneath the rubble, and so he was able to remove it from his ear. He held it in the palm of his hand for the longest time.

And still, he lingered, touching the small N7 symbol engraved upon it. It was covered in dust, and some blood, and he tried to brush it all off with one finger. The symbol was important to him. N7. The most elite of the Alliance military. First and foremost, he was a soldier and that was all he'd probably ever be. A soldier. Not a husband, nor a father. And, once, the Alliance threw him away without ever really trying to locate his mangled body. More importantly, it took them over two years to erect a monument on Alchera to the_ SSV Normandy_ and its late crew-members. To Ash, and Pressly, and so many others. _What a shame. _

Suddenly and without warning, he threw the thing away with a distasteful grunt. The ear-piece clattered across the strewn debris and settled in the dust, looking oddly out of place in such a desolate environment. That done, he settled back down on the rubble, feeling his bones and muscles ache with weariness. He was only distantly aware of a trickle of something warm, sticky, and wet trickling down the side of his face. He touched it, and his hand came away with fresh blood. It was matting his short, tousled hair and drying on his cheek.

He swore quietly at the sight.

A moment later and he realized he was shivering in his hard-suit, his body feeling cold and numb. His vision began to fail, clarity lost to hazy shadows and blurry outlines.

He had the oddest sense of déjà vu. An overwhelming sense of hopelessness and exhaustion but without the burning pain. The very sensation he'd had during his first death, where he knew he was going to die and began to accept it.

Yes. He was going to die.

He would have laughed if he'd had the strength to try. A spacer by birth and living a life raised aboard Alliance starships and space stations, this was to be his third time on Earth, humanity's home-world. Humanity's cradle of life where it was born and nurtured for centuries. The planet tied up with humanity's history and goals and ambitions. So it seemed that he had finally come home to die.

He stared unseeing into the dim light, seeing nothing and everything all at once.

It would be so easy to lie down and rest awhile . . . shut his eyes for only a moment. . . .

A faint light cut across his vision, but he neither saw it nor truly cared. Faint voices in the air, but he wasn't listening. A multitude of lights bobbing in the distance. One cut away and began to approach, a voice shouting something indiscernible.

Then, he blinked and the light was close enough to blind, but he was so far gone already, he hardly noticed. He was fading. A voice echoing around him, faint and lost.

_"I've found him!"_ the voice cried, sounding urgent. _"I've found Shepard!"_

And this was nothing like his first death. Asphyxiation.

This time, there was no pain. Just a dull chill that settled over him like a blanket.

This time, he could die with a smile on his face, content in the knowledge that he had given his all for the galaxy.

There would be no more speeches, no more medals, and no more ceremonies. More importantly, no more Commander Shepard, first human Spectre. Only a formless ghost would remain. An echo.

_"Over here! Over here!"_ The voice was incessant, disturbing his thoughts with its garbled tongue. He didn't want to be found, didn't want to live. He just wanted to rest . . . A peaceful, undisturbed sleep. . . .

Not even Tali could blame him for that . . . could she?

No. Not even thought of Tali, all silvery eyes and contagious smiles, could bring him back now. Not even that faint whisper in the back of his mind . . .

_"Come back to me. . . ."_

More voices. More lights. He felt himself being poked, prodded, and shifted. But it was already too late.

As his eyes fluttered shut, a chorus of urgent cries cut through the darkness like a knife. A flurry of activity as he stepped off the precipice and into the vast realm of the unknown.

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_Please, read and review to let me know what you think! I mean, come on, I love random messages. :D_


	2. Paradise Remains

_The remainder of this fanfic is dedicated to A2C2G for kindly pointing out to me the fact that I need to write more happier fanfiction. Not to mention, the way I left this fic was not very happy at all, definitely not 'Happily-Ever-After-Compliant,' and thus unacceptable. It was undeserving of its label as it was, so I have decided to continue it for two more chapters in order to rectify this mistake on my part. My apologies, amigos._

_Constructive criticism is, as always, welcome and appreciated. Please, no flames._

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**Chapter Two :**

**Paradise Remains**

**oOoOo**

The afterlife wasn't anything like what he expected.

This was Shepard's first thought as he came to, breathing heavily, blinking furiously, giving his eyes time enough to adjust to the sterile walls of gunmetal gray. Every breath he drew seemed to fill his nostrils with the acrid scent of antiseptic and medi-gel. When that one action was finally accomplished, he began to look around the room with heavy-lidded interest, noticing at once that he appeared to be in a room awfully similar to the SR-2 Normandy's Med-Bay.

Although it was relatively ludicrous, he briefly entertained the thought of the afterlife taking on the appearance of a familiar location so as not to alarm the newly-deceased upon "awakening." Still, he was rather disappointed by the lack of little red demons with horns and pitch-forks, or of pearly, white gates and gorgeously angelic hostesses. (After the devastation he'd seen, he missed the latter most definitely.)

His eyes then traveled downwards, towards the remainder of his body, to see if he was still himself — still Shepard. His hand was thickly bound in bandages, and, by lifting the sheets, he quickly discovered that a majority of his torso was likewise bandaged. If the constricting sensation was anything to go by, then he could expect the same treatment to his lower extremities as well. After that, he looked up. He was situated on one cot in such a way that made his looking through the observation windows and into the mess hall difficult, but, by craning his neck, he learned that it hardly mattered; the damn blinds were drawn.

Shepard blinked, slowly. The afterlife was nothing like what he'd come to expect, what he'd been told to expect, and he clung steadfast to the belief that this truly was the afterlife because the alternative was impossible; he was quite certain that he was dead, that none of the king's horses and none of the king's men were capable of reconstructing him again after his injuries sustained on Earth, and . . . then, there was an explosion he barely remembered.

_What . . . happened?_

He frowned, visibly puzzled. He could not focus his thoughts; they were too scattered, too indistinct. It required an active effort just to rein them all in, to make any sense of them.

The room itself was oddly devoid of people, of the ever-present Doctor Chakwas, and so he guessed that the afterlife's inhabitants weren't the friendliest sort of people. Perhaps they were simply being polite — giving him enough time to adjust to his strange situation and whatnot.

Having always been a man of action, however, Shepard quickly grew restless and, above all, _tired_ of current states-of-affairs. His head was swimming with urgent, half-formed questions, and he could not, after all, demand answers from an empty room. From _that_, he understood no answers would be forth-coming, no matter how hard he poked and prodded.

He wanted to find someone, anyone really, and demand to know what the hell had happened. So, he threw back the sheets, struggled to pull himself upright, and plant his bare feet on the floor. He stopping abruptly as a searing pain shot through his body, scattering the few comprehensible thoughts he had like sand.

He simply gritted his teeth and moaned under his breath until the pain had passed.

_N-no_, he concluded, inwardly. _Definitely not Heaven. I don't think it would hurt like this if it was._ He only vaguely hoped that he wasn't in Hell or some unheard-of equivalent.

Suddenly, and without warning, a woman who looked surprisingly like Doctor Chakwas burst through the pressurized door, holding a datapad in one hand and a steaming cup of coffee in the other. And for one already dead (this was the afterlife, right?), she certainly looked worn. Dark rings appeared under her kindly eyes, reaffirming the lines of wrinkles that had formed upon her forehead, which, when coupled with her graying hair, caused her to look well beyond her years. Perhaps more so than usual. If anything, she didn't seem very surprised by his presence, and he guessed that, if this was the real Med-Bay, the good doctor would likely have been alerted to his movements by some sort of VI.

Shepard blinked again, visibly confused. "Doctor Chakwas?" he tried, hesitantly. Was this Doctor Chakwas even real?

In one fluid motion, Doctor Chakwas placed the cup and datapad on her desk, and then hurried to his bedside, looking vastly concerned.

_Just like old times_, supplied a voice that sounded suspiciously like Garrus's. It was true enough; he had spent a great deal of time here, licking his wounds after a particularly trying mission.

"Don't move, Commander," she chided, firmly but gently. As she spoke, she carefully maneuvered him back down upon the bed, and Shepard was far too weak to offer much resistance. "You've sustained some serious injury," she informed him, "and, even with your extensive collection of cybernetics, it will still take some time to heal."

"What happened?" he asked, thickly. Then, he tried to sit up again, only to be stopped solidly by another blinding wall of pain. He swore loudly, and grimaced before plowing on, head-first, like always. "Where's Tali? Where's my crew?"

Doctor Chakwas merely awarded him with a disapproving look and then unceremoniously pushed him back down upon the bed, yet again.

"They're fine," she told him, exasperatedly. "And I understand that you have questions, Commander, but my first priority right now goes towards your condition. We'll have plenty of time for questions later. Now, _please_, let me do my job."

Shepard did as he was asked, but huffed impatiently just to let her know how he felt about it. Childish, maybe, but he hardly cared. Inwardly, he realized that this could only be the real Doctor Chakwas, if her stubbornness was anything to go by, because she was the only person in the entire galaxy whose force of will could probably match his. Then, Doctor Chakwas opened her omni-tool quickly, and began to shift through various medical data. Shepard didn't notice the small smile that spread across her lips as she realized that some things would never change, and that Shepard would always remain a difficult patient to treat. Difficult, yes, but also her favorite. He never let life on the Normandy become too uneventful, anyway.

"Hmmm," she said at last. "Brain waves appear normal. You seem to be recovering quite nicely." She did not replace her omni-tool, however, and, after another moment, she asked, offhandedly, "How do you feel, Commander?"

"Like hell," he grumbled. It was mostly true, at least.

Doctor Chakwas's smile widened by a fraction. "No doubt," she replied. "When Alliance personnel first rescued you on the Citadel, they thought you were dead. By all accounts, you're lucky to be alive."

"I consider myself lucky to have you as my doctor," he murmured.

At that, Doctor Chakwas released a bark of laughter, and it was the first time the Med-Bay had heard that sound in many months. "Idle flattery will get you anywhere, you know," she chuckled.

Then, he didn't quite know what to say. What could he say, anyway? They dissolved into silence, and Doctor Chakwas continued to pore over his medical data with a critical eye.

"So, what's the damage report, Doc?" he asked, finally. Then, he smirked. "Am I going to live?"

"Hardly," snorted the good doctor. Then, she shook her head in disbelief. "I don't know how you did it, Shepard, but you somehow managed to sprain your ankle, crack several ribs and part of your pelvis, shatter a few bones in your one hand, dislocate your shoulder, and endure second-degree burns across your torso and face, alongside a moderate to severe concussion. Not to mention the gaping gunshot wound in your abdomen and subsequent blood loss." She paused. "In addition to all of that, you've been comatose for the past three months."

Shepard performed the calculations in his head. "So, roughly three years," he muttered, quietly. The length of time that had been taken away from his life. Briefly, he wondered if the galaxy would ever leave him be after he died.

Doctor Chakwas nodded, slowly, confirming it. Then, she sighed. "Well, now that we've established the fact you aren't going to be slipping into another coma anytime soon, I am prepared to answer your questions, Commander."

_Finally!_

"Where's Tali?" he asked, immediately. "Where's my crew? Are they—?"

She almost appeared amused. "As I have already said, they are_ fine_, Commander. Most of them are still on Earth, fighting the remnants of the Reaper forces. Their reports have been relatively positive, too. Since the Reapers fell, the husks seem to have gone mad and are attacking everything that moves, including their own forces on some occasions. At this rate, it shouldn't take much longer to purge the entire planet of the dreadful things."

He nodded. It almost sounded too good to be true. Now, he only wondered if she was going to drop the bad news upon him like a bag of bricks. Because, in his experience, there was always some bad news. "And Tali?" he asked, suspiciously.

Again, Doctor Chakwas sighed. "She's fine, Commander. Been at your bedside for the better part of the last three months, I dare say, until I sent her away so she'd finally get some rest. Worrying about you hasn't done her any good." She chuckled, faintly. "Knowing her, she's probably down in Engineering, disregarding my medical advice completely."

Shepard grinned. "That does sound like her," he agreed, though he couldn't quite shake the feeling that there was something she wasn't telling him. If something had happened to Tali, then he had to know. It was absolutely imperative that he know. So, he met Chakwas's gaze, squarely. "Is there something you aren't telling me, Doc?" he asked, quietly.

"There is . . . something you should probably know," began Doctor Chakwas, reluctantly. "The last thing I want to do is worry you, but . . . On Earth, after you called in the Normandy to evacuate Tali and Garrus . . . well, Tali came to me with multiple breaches in her environ-suit. She was fully exposed to Earth's toxins, and came down with an awful reaction. If I hadn't stocked up on antibiotics when I had the chance, I . . . Truth is, she's still recovering, Shepard. That's why I sent her away. I hope you understand."

Now, the urge to see Tali was overwhelming. He wanted to see her, to hold her in his arms, and to breathe her in, if only to reassure himself that she was still alive, and still his.

"How bad was it?" he asked, hoarsely.

"The worst I've ever seen," Doctor Chakwas answered, gravely. "She very nearly died. Although . . . I suspect that her recurrent exposures to you might have saved her life by strengthening her immune system."

Shepard hesitated. His heart was wrenching itself into pieces for yet another close call that he blamed entirely upon himself. He wasn't sure if he really wanted to see her, anymore, because seeing her would remind him of his failure to protect her, to keep her safe and sound. But . . . at the same time, he needed to see her, to see what he was accountable for.

"I'd like to see her," he muttered. Truth be told, he didn't know what he would have done if he had lived, only to learn that Tali had died due to his negligence. Truly, he hoped that he would never learn what that felt like.

Doctor Chakwas nodded. "I understand. She's already on her way."

Shepard nodded, weakly. He didn't even have the strength to ask when she'd had the time to inform Tali of his recovery, or if she'd done it while he wasn't looking.

"If I may, Commander," began Doctor Chakwas, hesitantly. "I . . . have a question of my own."

"Shoot."

"What exactly happened on the Citadel?" she asked, curiously. "You weren't responsive."

Again, Shepard tried to recall what had happened, but caught only glimpses. He remembered Anderson's death with perfect clarity, but everything else was simply a blur. There had been some kind of explosion . . .

He frowned to himself, thoughtfully. "I . . . don't know," he admitted.

"Really?" she asked, her voice filled with concern. "Maybe your brain sustained some damage, after all. I'll have to look into it." She shrugged. "I suppose it doesn't matter, anyway. Whatever you did, it worked. The Reapers are gone, once and for all. The galaxy is safe at last."

While the words left her lips, the pressurized doors burst open yet again, and Shepard's heart leapt into his throat.

It was Tali.


End file.
